The Smouldering Ache of Loss

The pain of losing Hugo
It is a fire that rages still.
For me –
Angry.

Burning, flames dancing, fed by oxygen –
But you cannot see it.

You can smell it, though, the acrid waft of smoke.

The smouldering wood looks innocuous,
But it holds the heat of the raging fire –
Reach out to touch it and it will burn you
It burns bright inside the black exterior with red, yellow
It may combust spontaneously at any moment
You must tread carefully
Have a bucket of water on standby
But it can never be doused.

It is charcoal, hard but brittle.
It can break, rub into smithereens.
It can mark everything, make a huge mess.

It is not a pleasant fire, you do not sit around it singing songs, telling stories and toasting marshmallows.
It is a fire of intense heat, great intensity, it takes your breath away –
The dancing flames are mesmerising
They promise life, but they take it away, too.

For others the fire has dwindled,
There are times it has felt like that for me too.
It depends what day you ask me
Or what time on the day you ask me
Whether the fire is smouldering or whether it is raging

But smoulder or rage, the fire burns on.

It can never be doused.

I sometimes put my hands inside the flames –
Pick up a lump of scorching charcoal
To feel the pain
But I drop it again
Quickly
It hurts too much.

So I look from afar
At the hopes burned to a cinder
I cannot breathe for the smoke.

If you want me to breathe you will need to take away the fire
But this is a fire that cannot be doused completely
And the fire is in me.